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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28703358">Salt And Copper</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/pseuds/OkayAristotle'>OkayAristotle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>DCU</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood and Violence, Dubious Consent, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, M/M, Masochism, Painplay, Rough Sex, Switch Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 09:07:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,538</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28703358</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/pseuds/OkayAristotle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This week, it was Bruce's turn to take a beating. He'd get Slade back another time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bruce Wayne/Slade Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>66</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Salt And Copper</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/741081">Slade/Bruce Art</a> by Akira_1611.
        </li>

    </ul></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was stupid to bait a man like Deathstroke. </p><p>He knew that. Or he thought he had. But Bruce knew it <em> truly </em> now. In the kind of way he wouldn't forget in the months and years that followed. Seared into his memory as surely as scar tissue. </p><p>They'd been doing this for far too long. Back and forth. Cat and mouse. It had started with Slade, and Bruce bent over a brick wall, fucked until he was bloody and bruised. And that— that had stuck with him. Followed him around in the quiet moments, Bruce's headspace overtaken by it at some points. It had only been a matter of time before he'd repaid the favor, so to speak. </p><p>Slade hadn't appreciated it. And so on it had gone, rinse and repeat. Bruise for bruise, as much as Bruce could keep up with Slade's particular efficiency in causing pain, lacing it with a bite of pleasure. </p><p>Slade had morals. Principles. They were extremely cold, and rigid, but they were there. Lines he wouldn't cross. But he was not warm, or kind, or gentle. Slade was all sharp edges, and capable of slicing Bruce to ribbons. </p><p>Blood poured from his mouth. Stained his teeth and the well of his mouth. It dripped out between fingers he pressed to chilled lips, mixing with all the other sluggishly bleeding wounds. </p><p>Everything… buzzes. Pulses under his skin in hot bursts. He feels like one singular bruise, prodded and poked by Slade's gaze, standing above him. Watching his handiwork as it wheezes — the cracked ribs — and shivers — the shock — and Bruce tries, desperately to make his leg move. To <em> work.  </em></p><p>He'd known Slade could pack a kick, but the real crunch of boot against his kneecap had been something else, though. Blinding and white-hot, all consuming for the brief moments he'd allowed it to take over his senses. And then Slade had sliced through his inner thigh with a flick of his wrist, sending Bruce completely down. </p><p>He coughs, blood sluicing from his mouth. "You get hard when you hit me?" Bruce asks, staring a little blank at the rooftop, not quite able to raise his head. He knows he does. It's something he's had to come to terms with, in both of them. </p><p>"You're one to talk." Slade snorts. </p><p>Sounds as put-together as ever. Just the same as he had at the start of this fight— or beating, he supposes. Perhaps an edge to his voice, a quality Bruce has heard many times by now, that tells him Slads <em> is </em> hard, and he's going to do something about it whether Bruce wants to or not. </p><p>That bloodied tip of his sword carefully rests beneath his chin. Tips his head back with force, Bruce's vision blurring for a moment. "Look pretty hard to me." Slade murmurs, nearly <em> fond. </em> </p><p>He hums, not quite disagreeing. "Adrenaline." </p><p>"Sure," he taps Bruce's chin, nicking the skin. Another wound to mark him for the weeks to come. "Let's call it that." </p><p>Bruce hums, throat a little battered. Every moment he wasn't looking, Slade was going for it with those hands of his. Broad enough to get a good grip and just <em> squeeze, </em>no matter how much it hurt, or how much Bruce struggled, boots skirting the floor as he was dragged up. </p><p>When he looks, there's two — possibly three — of Slade, blurry and melding into one another as his eyes struggle to focus. To stay that way. Bruce's mind feels close to the same sort of slippery quality, thoughts slipping in and out of his mind like liquid, the only constant being Slade himself. Self-assured when he sheathes the sword again, replacing it with his hand. </p><p>Bruce nearly sighs, with how gentle the touch is. Ever so careful when Slade takes his chin and tilts him up that little bit more, Bruce's neck protesting. His mouth parts, hot breath puffing into cool Gotham night air, and tastes copper. Blood coating the underside of his tongue when he licks his bottom lip and stares at Slade's indifferent mask. </p><p>His heart beats a little heavier when Slade looks at him, sending every wound throbbing along with Bruce's achingly hard cock. Nothing quite comes close to the particular brand of pain Slade could unleash. Artful. Systematic in the wonderful high he subjects Bruce to when he's baited enough, riled up like a particularly wild animal that's had enough. </p><p>His lip splits open again on a barely congealed cut when he smiles, teeth all pink and tongue nearly numb in his mouth. Slade keeps staring down at him, silent, not even breathing. "Take a picture." He drawls. With that, he turns his head just an inch, enough for Slade to let him go, leaving a smear of red against his glove. </p><p>"Maybe next time." Slade mutters. But he doesn't sound put-off in the slightest, hesitating only a moment before he reaches up to peel the mask off. </p><p>It maybe says something about Bruce, that he always finds Slade most attractive after he's put his hands on him. Maybe says something about Slade, too. He looks real good, that satisfied smirk tugging at his pale mouth, not a hair out of place. There's such a <em> disdain </em> in his eye as he flicks over Bruce's body, taking in the damage he's done. </p><p>His smile growls a little wider, a little more teeth. There's a particular order to things like this, at least. He knows what comes next before Slade even moves, and only grunts when his arm is taken sharply, dragging him up while the rest of Bruce stays a stubborn, dead weight. </p><p>Agony lances up his thigh, leaving Bruce shaking through a groan, fingers prickling with pins and needles. He can't even <em> feel </em> his feet, let alone stand on them, and the ragdoll movement only irritates all his other gashes and lacerations. </p><p>Slade had been fond of his sword tonight, at least. Sometimes it was his hands, raw strength. Sometimes it was a particularly vicious barrage of bullets, or a small blade that he wielded quicker than Bruce could follow. But the sword was a particular favourite. </p><p>Rather than drag him to his feet, Slade hauls him to the nearest vertical surface and none-too-kindly slams Bruce's head into it, sending the world into white noise and rising licks of pain through every nerve. Hazily, he realises it's a ventilation unit, the roof of his mouth aching as his world tries to right itself. Rooftop. Gotham. Slade. He swallows, the tang of blood nauseating. </p><p>"Missed this?" Slade asks, leans forward until he's all Bruce can see, broad shouldered and blocking out every pinprick of light. </p><p>"I don't know," Bruce slurs, aware it's barely intelligible through aching teeth, "did you?"</p><p>"Mature." Slade snorts. The world gets that little bit smaller when Slade's hand approaches, briefly blacking out his vision before it winds into the cracks of the cowl. Somewhere along the way, he'd all but ripped it apart, and now hair and blood spilled from it freely, profusely, wetting Slade's fingers where he took hold of Bruce's head and pinned him back. </p><p>With his other hand, he hooks a thumb into the waistband of his suit, a tantalising sight if he ever saw one. Bruce's aching mouth buzzes, wet and sticky with thickening blood, and his throat trembles when he swallows it all down. "You gonna be good?" </p><p>"Think you like it when I'm—" He gets cut off by a firm grip on his face, Slade's thumb digging into the hinge of his jaw hard enough to make the bones protest. Bruce bucks against thin air for lack of any other outlet, strangled a noise in his chest.</p><p>"Don't like it when you get <em> smart." </em>Slade sneers. Holds Bruce's gaze for a long, silent moment, before he says, "Open up." </p><p>Slade relaxes his grip just enough for Bruce to do just that, and then spits into his mouth with a mean grin. He taps his cheek sharply in warning. Bruce flinches, but stays put, jaw still aching where he was held, the imprints of Slade's fingers starting to solidify into bruises. Slade watches him for another moment, before mechanically shoving his pants down, cock springing free, thick and drooling at the tip. </p><p>Bruce's vision darkens a little, and he's sure he's lost enough blood to put him out of commission for the next few days. It sticks to his skin, drying on the edge of his cheekbone, matting his hair. It smears from his ribs, little fine cuts that he feels break open again when he sucks in a last lungful of air before Slade lines up and feeds his cock into Bruce's mouth with a groan. </p><p>It's a slow, forceful ride in, helped none by the drying mess of his mouth, Bruce's tongue stuck to the curve of his gums. The hand in his hair holds him firm, even when the wide head of his cock bruises the tender back of his throat and <em> grinds, </em>Bruce bucking again with a choked noise. </p><p>It hurts, and makes his stomach twist into knots with nausea, and it feels so fucking <em> good. </em>His cock throbs between his thighs, Bruce's head swimming when Slade's hips finally press against the tip of his nose, filling him up, pushing the last few stringy thoughts from his head with little protest.</p><p>Above him, Slade pants, one hand braced on the unit behind him, the other rhythmically gripping and releasing his hair. And then he pulls out just an inch, enough for Bruce to swallow some of the saliva in his mouth, tasting salt and copper. And then he sinks back in again, short and sharp thrusts that punch against his gag reflex cruelly. </p><p>He whines. Can't help it. Digs his bruised fingertips into the concrete and does his best not to let his vision get any darker, small spots closing out his vision the longer Slade stays buried in his throat. He itches to touch himself, anything to offset the lit fires under his skin, ribs protesting every convulse of his chest and fuck, his <em> knee, </em> and then he forgets all about things like having a body, or nerves, or pain, or where the fuck they are or who he is besides <em> the man with Slade's cock down his throat </em>. </p><p>Bruce whimpers the moment he feels a heavy weight settle between his thighs, Slade grinding the heel of his boot down hard against his cock, and God help him, it's almost enough to send him over the edge right there, a horrible mix of pain and sharp, distinct pleasure. Bruce's eyes sting when Slade pulls out nearly all the way, cock heavy on the tip of his tongue, and sucks in hoarse, whimpering breaths. </p><p>"Atta boy," Slade murmurs. "Knew you could be good." Bruce yelps at the next grind of his boot, head lolling briefly before it's jerked upright again. He opens his mouth without thinking and accepts the intrusion of Slade's cock with a small choke, not much more. </p><p>That was the good thing about pain, he supposed. It had a habit of sharpening what was important, and discarding the rest. Slade's cock tended to do the same, unburdening his mind of thoughts that were unimportant just to make room for the sheer size. </p><p>He let Slade set the pace and drifted, slightly, a pressure behind his eyes that only grew worse the more Slade ruts against his mouth, into his throat, sharp jackhammers of his hips that pulled obscene, wet noises from his mouth, the crown of his cock scraping Bruce's throat raw. </p><p>In his peripheral, the rooftop tilts, blurs. Unfocuses and turns gritty, only to snap back to crystal quality when he slides his gaze away from the oppressive closeness of Slade's hips, a trail of white hair leading down, the flat plane of abdominals when he hikes his shirt up and grinds into Bruce's mouth carelessly. Everything aches. Everything hurts. Everything <em> pulses, </em>and the punishing pace Slade sets only melts into all the rest — easy to sink into, when he lets it happen. </p><p>They've been here enough times by now, he knows it's always best when he lets it. When he gives up that small inch of control, lets Slade's hand guide him onto his cock, bruised and a little broken down. Enough that he can get to that point — blank and open, all his blood and his burning wounds on the outside for once. </p><p>He doesn't need much higher thought to know when Slade is close. When he jackhammers into Bruce's mouth like he wants to leave him bruised inside and out. When his grip sends pinpricks of pain sparking over his scalp, strands of hair snapping easily. When he hears Slade's muttered litany of curses and praise, voice thick and rough, full of need. </p><p>When he buries himself in Bruce's throat and comes in hot, hard pulses. Blood rushes in his ears, dizzying, Bruce's eyes fluttering as they sting. Numbly, he wraps his fingers around Slade's boot, still on his cock, and doesn't make a move to shift it. </p><p>After a second, Slade does anyway. The loss of Slade's cock is unbearable for a moment, and then Bruce tastes crisp, cold air, inhaling it in wracking coughs that bring up spit and blood. Slade's cock bobs in his vision, tinged scarlet. His blood, and the last drops of come that Bruce leans forward to taste, working hard to even out his breathing. </p><p>"Guess you can be good." Slade murmurs, his own breathing a little laboured. Runs his fingers over Bruce's head absently, humming when Bruce licks a heavy stripe along the underside of his cock, salt and copper coating his tongue. </p><p>"Sometimes." Bruce agrees. Sounds wrecked even to his own ears. Like someone else. He swallows, sharp lances of pain through his larynx. He sinks down on Slade's cock just an inch, suckles hard, earning himself a hiss. </p><p>"Careful," Slade mutters. "Or I'll go again." </p><p>He couldn't stand if he wanted to. Isn't sure he could stay conscious for another blowjob. Despite that, he suckles a little harder. Pulls off his cock with an audible, wet <em> pop. </em>"Maybe I want you to." </p><p>It sounds hoarse, his voice cracking in unusual places. Needy. He'd flush if he had any blood to spare. Slade tips his head back easily with a light push of his fingers, and Bruce finds he doesn't have the energy to lift it again. </p><p>"You're done." He informs him, a quick quirk of his mouth that is smug and amused all at once. Briefly, he grips his cock, and it takes Bruce a slow moment to realise why, watching as he takes a corner of the cape and wipes it off. "Nice seeing you, as always."</p><p>"Mm." He hums. Exhales with difficulty, ribs protesting. In a few moments, Slade looks as good as when he arrived, mask tugged down back into that indifferent, blank gaze. He regards Bruce quietly, and then steps back. "Next one's on you." Bruce calls out, and then coughs, sagging against the unit heavily. </p><p>Everything pulses under his skin, hot and tender, but he'd take it again and again, just for a slice of that feeling Slade gives him sometimes. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I am now on twitter, same username. Follow for more violent dubcon bruce/slade content i guess</p></blockquote></div></div>
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